The Warning Light
by bmacod44
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Warren, a simple traveler, stumbles upon a horrific scene, the death of a Pokemon trainer. Now that trainer's Pokeballs have become corrupted, damaging or destroying what is left of the Pokemon inside. Now, Warren must decide whether to take the chance releasing the Pokemon, or destroying them. Based on the comic "What Happens to a Pokemon if Their Trainer Dies?"
1. Chapter 1

The carcass of the teenaged trainer had mostly decomposed, the only things left behind being a skeleton, with some areas covered in still decaying human tissue, tattered clothing, a pack shredded to bits and raided by wild Pokémon, and six Pokéballs, covered in dirt and scratched up, to a point that the red polished paint has almost completely disappeared. The trainer was most clearly male, despite there being no facial structure left to confirm this, other than cartilage, teeth, and eyeball remains still left in the sockets. I vomit almost immediately-the smell of rotting meat is overwhelming, let alone the fact that even the thought of blood makes my skin crawl.

It is law that if a deceased trainer is found that any person is to collect their trainer identification card, Pokéballs, and PokéDex, and immediately report the death to police. I approach with caution; it isn't unusual for predatory Pokémon to wait near a carcass for scavengers. I am not a trainer myself, and therefore have nobody by my side to protect me from an incoming attack. However, the coast is clear, and without interruption I manage to make it to what's left of the gruesome tragedy.

The PokéDex and trainer card identify the young man as Paul Gray, a senior Pokémon trainer not much older than I. There are no signs of a struggle, and neither of foul play, the policeman says, two conclusions I had come to upon my own investigation.

The man then turns to me. You know it's dangerous to be out here without a Pokémon, right? I nod, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. He then hands me the Pokéballs found on the trainer. Most of these are likely corrupted, he says, pointing to the solid red warning light surrounding the button on the face. How unfortunate, I think. These were once living creatures, forced down to mere Yottabytes of data into a containment system simply for the convenience of being able to carry more than one at a time. I express this to the policeman, only to be given a sideways look and a grunt of indifference.

My dad being nothing but a small name Pokémon diagnostician and health expert in a big city, my fear of being as terrible a trainer as the ones I've seen come to the clinic has deterred me from deciding to raise a Pokémon. Chronic battle wounds, lifelong scars, and even mental incapacitation and abuse have presented themselves in suite 2370 of 60 Park Avenue, and the thought of causing that kind of harm to a living creature is terrifying to me.

I do, however, reluctantly accept the Pokéballs. I don't exactly know what to do with them, I say blankly to the uniformed officer. He looks me over as if I'm stupid, saying Well, son, you have three options. One is that you smash them immediately, as to prevent the corrupted data from causing you or others harm, and another is to take them to a licensed Pokémon Center, where they will also most likely be discarded. He studies my face deeply, waiting for any sign of misunderstanding. When he gets no such sign, he continues, Now this is probably the most risky of the decisions you could possibly make. Open them.

I look him in the eyes with a stare that seems to insist that he is in fact the stupid one. Why would I want to do that? I demand. You just said so yourself, what's in these things could be dangerous.

Yeah, it could, he says, not missing a beat, but it could also be alive.

My moral dilemma increases exponentially throughout the hours that I carry the small spheres of chance in my bag. The man stated that if there is the slightest chance of a Pokémon not being corrupted, my decision needed to be made in a short time, if not immediately, as there is no telling how long there may be until the corruption actually takes place. But the repercussions of either choice is terrifying, and even as I look to the ceiling of the rest cabin, the sound of rain on a tin roof cannot shed light on what is the right choice.

I sit up suddenly and grab my red bag from beside the king mattress, open the front pocket, and pull out the Pokéballs. I study them one by one-they have been engraved with either one symbol or two, similar to what you would see imprinted on a yearbook. One has some kind of game ball, and a book. I wonder if they're supposed to represent something, I wonder out loud. From what I can tell, they seem completely unrelated to typing, or to Pokémon in any respect. In fact, the symbols appear to be completely random. Is it possible that they express the personalities of the Pokémon inside?

I continue investigating each ball closely, coming upon another interesting customization. Along the black band of each ball is a quote, most often a famous quote to do with friendship. One of them reads Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light, and another says A single rose can be my garden, a single friend, my world. Each Pokéball is customized, and I can't help but think that this may be one of the more caring expressions I've seen in Pokémon trainers.

There is one Pokéball that stands out from the rest. The engravings are noticeably bigger and more detailed, one being a broken heart stitched back together, and the other nothing more than four lines. The words along the ring are not actually a quote, and instead say Thank you for saving me when I did not want to be saved. Finally, the most outstanding detail is directly above the button of the ball, a lime-green crystal. It's cracked down the middle, but it appears as if none of it has fallen from where it is being held.

I sigh, realizing I've made up my mind. I reach to pick up the Pokéball.

It jumps from my hand as soon as my fingertips make contact. It then begins to seize violently, the red ring now flashing aggressively, and I dart back. I'm yet again unprepared to fight, and whatever is about to come out from that thing may possibly kill me.

The button on the middle of the ball pops off. Cracks appear along the bottom half. There's a flash of white light and I brace myself for impact from an unseen force.

The attack never comes.

Instead, what follows is an entirely more terrifying scene. A small-bodied Pokémon with a large set of jaws extending from the top of its head appears, howling and screeching. Blood pools around it as it collapses in agony, and more spills from the left side of its body, where its arm would normally be.

I fight the urge to panic and jump into action immediately. I grab my bag and pull out a long-sleeved shirt and a short-sleeve shirt, then run over to where the Pokémon had fallen. I press the short-sleeve against the wound, then use the long-sleeve to hold it against the injury by tying the sleeves around the Pokémon's waist. It struggled and fought against my assistance, snapping its large jaws at me while its docile face continued to scream in pain. I put pressure against the wound, and simultaneously tried to sooth the anguishing Pokémon. Potions will be ineffective at this point, clearly, and so would an average Pokémon Center care. But I'm hours of driving away from my father's clinic, and I have no idea how to care for a wound so severe. I have no other choice.

I'm being given looks of either confusion or disgust from people in the Center for the first few hours of pacing in the waiting room. My guess is that most people think I'm the one that did this. Then again, nobody here really knows that I almost always faint at the sight of blood.

A man knocks loudly on two wooden doors, then opens them. Warren Kilburn, he announces loudly, and I jump. Not many people call me by my full name, but rather my last. I jog over, my mind races ceaselessly with the possibilities of what could have happened to the Pokémon, which I had recently learned is a Mawile. The man, who introduced himself as the lead surgeon in the operation, looked at me grimly. She's going to be alright, he says, a statement that, while soothing, is in no way comforting due to him demeanor. I hold my breath and wait for the bad news, expecting the worst.

This isn't your Pokémon, is it, kid, he states flatly. I shake my head. The surgeon nods, avoiding eye contact.

Is the boys name Paul, he says, again with little emotion, giving the implication that he knows the answer. This time I nod, a feeling of guilt rising in my gut. He knows the trainer, I think, and I'm the one that's going to have to tell him that…

Paul's dead, he whispers. I nod again, unaware that he isn't paying attention to me anymore. I need a moment, he says, more to himself than anyone. Then, as if just remembering that I'm in the room, chokes out Serenity's in the ICU, but after that seems unable to continue talking. I want to help the guy, but at this point I think that Mawile, or Serenity, is probably in much more need of somebody.

I enter the room slowly, trying not to startle the resting Pokémon. As I approach, it squints its eyes at me, then smiles. I smile back, happy to know it's acting so friendly toward me.

However, my relief is short lived. As it opens it's mouth, it shouts what seems to be a word. My face drops when I hear the word it says.

Paul!


	2. Chapter 2

The strange office on the west side of Castelia is rather cramped. I'm not really good with small spaces, and the cluttered mess of tools and gadgets on the coffee table in front of me does no justice for my claustrophobia. The young blonde girl, maybe sixteen or so, tinkers with the Pokéball top I had brought in. She had introduced herself as Anne-Desiree, or just Anne for short. She's very lively, and clearly intelligent, as far as electronics. Anne and her family are very well known on the west end for her handiwork with PokéDex and Pokéball repair. On top of that, she's pretty damn cute.

Wow, she says suddenly, and I jump. Her electric blue eyes study the red cap with intrigue. I've never seen such workmanship before.

Me, either, I reply.

Is the owner travelling with you?

I look down, thinking of the rotting teenagers body I found only days earlier. No, I reply quietly.

Well that's too bad, she says, oblivious to my tone and her eyes not leaving the cap. I would love to know where he got this amazing design done. She goes back to tinkering, but just when I feel like she's done speaking with me, she asks the question.

So what brings you here, anyways?

I've arrived back home about three days ago, in an emergency vehicle with Serenity. The Pokémon, who has been extremely disoriented from the emotional and physical pain of losing her arm and her trainer, is in a state of severe delusion, and is being taken care of at Castelia General, a hospital on the north ridge. While I'd have preferred to have her cared for by my father, the hospital and the Center both strongly insisted that she receive medical care from them.

I thought back to her first major meltdown in the ICU.

Paul!

No, Serenity, I said calmly, trying not to stress her, I'm not Paul, I'm sorry.

Paul? She repeated. While it's rare for a Pokémon to know human language, her speech was rather limited.

I hesitated. No, honey, I said quietly. Paul isn't… Here anymore.

Paul..? Her eyes glossed over.

I'm sorry, I said, in barely a whisper.

Silence. Neither of us move. She stared, unblinking. Then she closed her eyes. The corners welled up with tears.

No.

I looked up, surprised. Sereni-!

No! She roared at me, and jumped from the bed. No! No! NOOO!

It had taken over three hours to find and calm her down, I say. Following another emergency operation to close her stitches, she and I were immediately rushed here.

Geez, she sighs, no longer messing around with the Pokéball cap. She was entirely fixated on the story. And her trainer, she pauses, he's..?

I nod solemnly.

She's quiet for a moment. Then, as if suddenly hit with a burst of energy, she jumps up. I insist you take me to this Pokémon!

Wait, what?

You heard me! I want to meet Serenity!

Why?

She gets quiet. Well, she says in a low voice, I just… I know what it's like to feel guilty.

Guilty?

Yeah, guilty. Like survivor guilt. Like you're the one that's responsible for the death of someone close to you. Like you… You could've saved them. She looks down. Nevermind, I'm prying too much. Here, I'll get you another hinge and flat cap for her Pokéball, and you can go. Free of charge.

I try to make eye contact, but she continues looking at the floor. No, Anne, I couldn't-

Please. She lifts her head up, and I look in her eyes. there are streaks running down her face. I don't fight back.

Anne-Desiree watches the tall red-haired boy walk out of the shop. After taking a minute to collect herself, she wipes her eyes and begins to put away her tools.

Her mind keeps wandering back to Colleen. She always protected me, she thought out loud, but the one time she needed me, I couldn't be there for her…

Anne puts the microscrewdriver back on the coffee table. She can't. The shop was this messy when she left; it would be an insult to clean it now. She collapses on the couch, curling into a ball. But before she gets a chance to melt down, she hears the sound of change. Anne stands up and pulls the cushions apart, and in the middle is an envelope filled with coins, and a phone number written on it.

My dad walks from the stove to the fridge, trying but horribly failing to cook hamburger meat for Hamburger Helper. Normally this is fun to watch; seeing as he isn't exactly an iron chef, but tonight neither of us are in any mood to laugh. He lost another patient today. I know he's just running around the kitchen as a distraction, but I know at some point he'll chuck the whole pan and end up microwaving Ramen for the two of us.

My mom is out of region for the next four months. She's a doctor, like my dad, but she actually works at the hospital. They're not together anymore, due to my father's lack of success. I mean, he isn't bad at what he does, but there's only so much room for doctors in Castelia General.

Just as I'd predicted, I hear my dad curse under his breath and dump the burnt beef into the food disposal, and the familiar crinkling of a Ramen package.

So hows the orphan Pokémon doing, he says with a mouthful of noodles. I grunt. I'm not very keen on telling him that she refuses to accept the death of her trainer. That bad, huh? I grunt again. He sighs. You know, if you'll let me, I might be able to help you out.

Dad, it's a pretty messed up situation, I say, eating another forkful of chicken Ramen. It's not something that you can spray a Potion on.

He runs his hand through his graying hair. That's not what I do, he says, aggravated. You know that.

I know, I'm sorry. It's just… I dunno. This is new to me.

We eat in silence. Then he says, Have you tried letting any of the others out? I don't reply. I haven't. I'm too scared to. The thought of maiming another Pokémon or even killing it is terrifying.

Warren, what if they're still alive? I don't answer. I can feel my face getting hot. My lack of response makes him begin to raise his voice. What if you can save them? What if-

Yeah, and what if I can't, dad! What if I kill them!

I'm standing now, both hands balled into fists on the table. My Ramen bowl is on the floor, cracked, with broth leaking across the hardwood. I don't remember standing up, but I immediately regret it. My dad stands up slowly. I expect the worst, but he just looks at me from behind his glasses, and smiles.

You've gotta fire in your belly, boy. Just like your mother.

I want to be upset at him, but I can't do it. I just smile back.

We both jump when the phone rings. I'll get it, I say, jogging to the landline. I answer with the customary greeting dad has always had me answer with: Kilburn Care Unit, this is Warren, how can I help you?

Warren? The voice on the other line says. I recognise it as Anne's.

Oh, hey.

So, um, she pauses. She sounds nervous. How's Serenity?

I'm not sure, I reply. She doesn't want to see me, so I've just kind of been staying home.

Oh.

Yeah.

She exhales heavily. I'm going to ask you again. Please let me go see her.

Okay.

No, you don't understand-wait, did you say yes?

I laugh. Yes, Anne. But… Look, she's not exactly friendly. She might attack you. I can't be sure, and I can't protect you.

I know, she states flatly. Damn, she's stubborn.

Okay.

Okay. So, tomorrow?

Yeah, sure. I'll meet you there around noon.

Alright.

Okay. Well… Night.

Night, Kilburn. She hangs up the phone, but I stay on the line an extra moment. I can't help but wonder if she's as nervous as I am.

My dad calls from the dining room that I still have Ramen to clean up.


	3. Chapter 3

Anne and I stand awkwardly in the hall of the crowded hospital, waiting for clearance to go into the ICU wing. It's almost eerie how Pokémon Hospitals almost run like clockwork, having individual rushes, post-dinner being the biggest one. More often than not it's just battle wounds, and they aren't usually too severe, but it doesn't make it easier for those with more serious injuries, either.

I held the navy knit cap in my hand. It was Paul's. The man in charge of the autopsy, who called himself Doc, had given it to me last night before I left. "You can't tell anybody I gave this to you," he said, looking at me from behind his large spectacles. "Technically, it's a piece of evidence, and I could lose my job. But I've seen your story on the news, and I just figured it might help Serenity with the loss. And don't mention it either. I'm not supposed to be this nice."

I come back to the present and sigh. When did this all become _my_ story? I'm not the Pokémon trainer, nor am I the Pokémon. I just happen to be trying to help someone who's in pain. But now all the stations are broadcasting about how I'm some kind of hero, like I saved this Pokémon. I did nothing of the sort. It's not like I rescued it from a burning building. I made a terrible judgement call that left the Pokémon without an arm.

This isn't my story. It isn't supposed to be my story. It's supposed to be Paul's.

I feel a warm hand on my back. "Warren," Anne says, "it isn't your fault." Before I can even think of questioning how she knew what I was thinking, a voice comes over the intercom.

"The party of Serenity, Trainer I.D. of 33865, please meet the nurse at the Intensive Care entryway."

The tension in the room is at this point thicker than oatmeal. There is no talking, or at least not yet. Anne has to get an extra security screening done, as a first time visitor for Serenity.

Serenity avoids all eye contact. In fact, she seems to be attempting to look at everything in the room except me, as if it's some kind of game. Just as she was yesterday, she's clearly disappointed that I was the one to walk through the door rather than Paul.

"It's clear she's denying any confirmation of the loss of her trainer," the doctor told me as we approached the room. She stopped me at the door. "I seriously do not recommend your continued visitations."

I look at her in exasperation. "What? Why not?!"

She looked down. "Warren, I'm sorry, but your visits seem to be complicating things. She's not getting any better, and the emotional stress doing her no good at all. I mean," she rubbed her neck. "I can't really say no, but-"

"Then I'm not leaving!"

"It's just making it harder for her."

"Yeah? Well would it be any easier for her to be completely alone?"

She made a move to respond, then closed her mouth and sighed. "Look," she said quietly, "I'm just telling you what I think is best for her. That's what we're here to do. Now whether you listen to what we have to say, that's on you." She turned to a small microphone on the door, and repeated Paul's trainer I.D.

I open my eyes, then quickly close them again. Serenity thinks I'm sleeping, and she's studying me from the bed three feet away. I smile, and she doesn't notice. I snort as if I'm snoring. She jumps, but continues watching me intently. "I see you," I say, and she jumps again, turning from me quickly. "You aren't sneaky." She mumbles, not facing me, with her one arm slinging over her torso. I decide this is as good a time as ever to attempt to talk to her. "Why don't you like me?"

She tenses up, and I hear her breath catch. I push on. "Please, just tell me. Well, I mean, not _tell_ me, I mean we can't talk, per say, but…"

There's a knock on the door. Anne comes in, followed closely by an older man, with white hair only on the sides of his head and a large pair of spectacles, with an expression of unending sternness-the autopsy specialist I met last night. "Hey," Anne says quietly.

"Hey," I smile.

"How are you folks today, guys?" The doctor interrupts sarcastically. "Warren, I met you yesterday, as I remember. For you, my name is Doc. Now, down to business."

He looks over at Serenity, and his face changes to a look of genuine concern. "Hello, dear," he says calmly, this entire demeanor changing from the strict businessman I met last night to what one could truly see as a doctor who cares for his patient. Serenity, however, was not impressed. Giving him no more than a sideways glance, she grunted. "You know, Serenity," he continued, "your friend, Paul, he cared a lot about you and the others." No response. "Did you know he kept pictures of you guys in his wallet?"

That got her attention. She turned her head quickly and stretched out her one useable paw, a clear demand to see the photos. Doc obliged, handing the photos to the Mawile.

It was in that moment that I saw how much she cared for Paul. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, and she made no attempt to stop them from coming. It all hit her, and all of us felt it. She finally accepts the truth, that Paul is gone. I don't only see the pain, but I _feel_ it. I can feel her pain, her loss. My eyes begin to water, and I wipe them away. I look over at Anne; she's crying too, without holding back at all. Doc keeps his eyes closed behind his spectacles. After what seems an eternity of silent sobs, she looks up at Doc, her small voice shaking, as she speaks the third english word I have ever heard a Pokémon say.

"G-gone?"

Doc avoids eye contact. He seems as close to crying as I am, and his voice cracks when he quietly says "Yes."

A Pokéball drops off of my belt suddenly, hitting the floor and cracking. It smashes open with a bright white light, and instantly blood pools out on the floor, followed immediately by a deathly scream.

Standing where the light has faded is a horrifying sight. Some kind of bipedal creature, with few distinctive features stands there, struggling to breathe. Its body is contorted in several ways, its torso jutting out at harsh angles, and it looks as though it's some kind of computer glitch.

It lets out another terrible scream. Serenity jumps up and yells as the thing that appears from the Pokéball jumps on me. I scream in pain as it shreds my arm with its jagged edges. It crawls off of me, dripping in both its own blood and my own.

"What is it?!" Anne yells from behind Doc. I try to respond, but when I do, nothing but a gurgling noise comes from my throat. I reach up to my throat.

I felt the torn tissues and the blood pouring from me. I felt the blood filling up my lungs. Serenity let out a horrible screech and its jawlike horn clamps on the monster, biting down clean in half. It disintegrates into the air, the only proof of existence being the pool of blood where it once stood.

Serenity runs over to me, but at this point I have trouble seeing her. I'm coughing up clods of my own body tissues mixed with blood. I reach weakly into my back pocket and, without saying a word, hand Serenity Paul's knit cap. " _This is it,"_ I think. " _This is how I die, in the arm of a Pokémon that hates me, surrounded by complete strangers."_

The last thing I hear is the soft ringing of a bell before I fall into darkness.


End file.
